


Stage Left (Batfam Dance Academy AU)

by MoonySideDown



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Justice League - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dance, F/M, Gen, Original Character(s), Self-Insert, batfam, batfamily, dance academy au, i have a lot of aus you guys better get ready for this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-01 21:42:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11495328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonySideDown/pseuds/MoonySideDown
Summary: Wayne Manor has been regarded for decades as the premiere dance program for any child or adult serious about their career, turning out world-renowned dancers who never fail to impress. The only catch- you don’t apply to the Manor, you are recruited by the Manor.But after two separate suspicious accidents left one of Bruce Wayne’s dancers in a wheelchair, and the other everything but dead, the once prestigious school has begun to fade towards scandal-laden obscurity.When Mr. Wayne suddenly begins enrolling dancers again, it looks to everyone that his school might just rise from the ashes. But with his ex-wife and father-in-law returning to the States from years abroad with their own dance program, and dangerous pressure arising from the elite but terrifying Joker Academy, it seems like the whole world would like nothing better than for Wayne Manor to burn to the ground, in one way or another.New dancers, new routines, and old friends might just be enough to save Wayne Manor, but are they enough to save the dancers inside?





	Stage Left (Batfam Dance Academy AU)

For all of his life, Bruce has been an early riser. His parents had insisted on it when he was a child, and he’d followed the habit straight into adulthood. In raising his sons he’s found rising early to be an asset, since it affords him some of the only bits of ‘alone time’ he gets all day.

 

But this morning, he doesn’t want to get out of bed.

 

He lays beneath the plush comforter, staring up at the ceiling of his bedroom. He isn’t especially tired, isn’t sick, and his bones don’t ache...at least not any more than they normally do.

 

He just...doesn’t want to get up.

 

With a sigh he turns his head to stare at the numbers glowing in the half-light of early morning. The neon green of the numbers almost hurts his eyes while they remind him that he was supposed to get up almost a half hour ago. It’s too late now for his usual morning jog, and he’s slowly stealing time away from his usual peaceful breakfast.

 

He turns his head back to stare at the ceiling again. He isn’t all that hungry anyway.

 

Moments later his phone buzzes against the bedside table, and he reaches over to tug the charger from its port and bring the phone to his face.

 

It’s a reminder that he doesn’t remember setting, packed with emojis, reminding him that it’s move-in day.

 

He drops his phone onto the bed beside him where it can be lost among the blankets. The fact that today is the day he makes practically irreversible changes to the exclusive dance academy his parents spent their lives building is a fact he does not need to be reminded of. It’s already kept him up half the night.

 

Just as he’s thinking he might maybe, possibly, be ready to get out of bed, there’s a soft tapping on the bedroom door that’s not entirely unexpected. He isn’t the only early riser in the house.

 

“Come in, Alfred.”

 

The door swings open just enough to allow Alfred inside, holding a steaming mug.

 

“Are you all right?” He asks in his gentle, accented voice.

 

“I’m fine. Just...tired.”

 

Alfred frowns, obviously not believing Bruce’s excuse.

 

“When you didn’t come down for your morning jog I thought you might be getting some extra rest to be ready for the big day,” He comments, nudging the door closed and leaning back against the wall, mug held thoughtfully in both hands, “when you weren’t down for coffee I wondered if you had somehow slept through your alarm, despite waking up at the same time every morning, come hell or high water, for...how many years now?”

 

Bruce doesn’t answer in words but continues to stare at the ceiling before releasing a soft sigh he knows Alfred won’t miss.

 

“But when you delayed coming down for breakfast, I feared you might have slipped away from us in your sleep.”

 

“If only.”

 

Alfred sighs, then takes a sip out of the mug.

 

Bruce lifts his head from the pillow, frowning. “That wasn’t for me?”

 

Alfred takes another long sip before answering. “When I feared you were too weak to come downstairs, it was. Now that I see you’re merely continuing to worry over something we’ve already discussed at great length...it’s for me.”

 

“The price of dealing with me?”

 

The older man’s smile is nearly hidden behind the mug he holds. “A price that shall never be fully paid, I fear. Are you coming down? Or shall I drop your meal in Ace’s bowl?”

 

“I’ll be down in just a minute.”

 

\- -

 

The main house of the Wayne Manor Academy of Dance is large, grand, and capable of housing several more residents than are currently inside its walls. Although the boys are more than capable of making enough noise and mess for a family of thirteen or more, in the early mornings when it’s just Bruce and Alfred awake, it’s still rather drafty and foreboding.

 

Until, that is, Bruce walks down the grand staircase and into the kitchen, where the recessed lighting makes the room glow gold, the steam rising from the bacon and eggs on the stove sends warmth and the scent of food billowing into the air, and the whistling tea kettle joins with the gurgling of the coffee pot in a strange kind of music.

 

Ace, the family’s aging German Shepherd, sits obediently on her monogrammed pillow off to the side of the action, watching with her ears pricked and nose poking up into the air to catch even the slightest whiff of food. When she spots Bruce her tail thumps against the wall behind her but she refuses to leave her position.

 

“What time are they supposed to get here?” He asks Alfred while he fondly scratches the dog’s ears.

 

“I told them move-in starts at eight.”

 

He has about two hours then. Two hours to try and stop feeling like he’s setting a match to the prestigious legacy his parents’ built and dancing on the ashes.

 

When he walks to the dining room table he finds a plate already in his spot, a napkin tucked over it to keep the contents warm.

 

He’s barely set himself down to eat when he hears what sounds like a herd of cattle galloping down the staircase.

 

Titus, his youngest son’s dog, bounds into the room, all long legs and heavy paws and barely restrained zest for life. After only the briefest of pauses to survey the room, the massive black Great Dane starts heading for Alfred.

 

“Titus, heel!” Damian’s voice snaps from the hall moments before the boy appears.

 

The dog stops immediately, turning to look back at his master with a mournful whimper.

 

Damian points firmly at the pillow beside Ace. “Sit.”

 

Titus whimpers once more but stands and drags his paws over to his pillow, turning around in place several times before setting his rear down gingerly.

 

Ace moves only her ears to acknowledge his presence while her eyes stay fixed on Alfred and the breakfast he’s fixing.

 

Bruce sets the napkin covering his plate aside, begins to eat, and watches while his son politely greets Alfred before preparing his own plate of food from the serving dishes left on the kitchen island.

 

He waits for the boy to settle himself in the chair to his left. Just as Damian is reaching for the jug of orange juice, Bruce reaches over just slow enough not to be noticed and ruffles his son’s dark hair.

 

“Father!” Damian squeaks, ducking away and swatting one hand at him. The jug hits the table heavily, juice sloshing, and Bruce puts out his other hand to steady it while he tries to bite back his laugh.

 

When Damian lifts his head, his hair, already mussed from sleep, is sticking out five different directions. 

 

“What was that for?” He’s trying to sound angry, Bruce can tell from the slight sharpness to his words, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth no matter how hard he tries to ignore it.

 

“You looked too serious.” Bruce answers, turning his attention back to his breakfast, even while he can feel Damian’s sleepy green eyes fixed on his face.

 

He lifts his glass to sip his juice but catches a glimpse of his son out of the corner of his eye while doing so. The sight of his youngest, hair a mess, still in his ‘jurassic world’ pajama shirt, squinting at him like he’s some alien creature, mouth hanging open in a half smirk, half grimace, is just too much to handle this early in the morning. He doesn’t quite catch the laugh before it tries to burst out. An undignified choking sound escapes when he tries to clamp down on it, and he ends up sputtering into his orange juice.

 

With juice now spattered on his face and dripping down his chin, Bruce shakes his head and reaches for a napkin.

 

Damian snatches the napkin holder away, smiling for real now.

 

“Damian.”

 

Smile bubbling into a laugh, Damian hides the napkins under the table and leans forward so his body is blocking Bruce’ view of it.

 

“Now listen here, you awful child.” Bruce chuckles, then leans forward to push the thirteen-year-old away from the table while reaching for the napkins in his lap.

 

The boy curls his legs up towards his chest, caging the napkins behind his legs. His laugh isn’t loud but it’s childlike and bright and it makes the weight on Bruce’s chest lift a bit.

 

“Damian Wayne!” He laughs, trying to pry Damian’s knees down from where they’ve locked against this narrow chest.

 

Suddenly, heavy black-furred paws are thudding against Bruce’s side while Titus whimpers and paws at his lap, trying to shove himself between Bruce and Damian. A tongue slaps across the side of his face.

 

“Augh, Titus! Titus, he’s fine!” Bruce tries to assure him, pushing him away with one arm while the dog continues to lick at his face.

 

“Titus!” Damian joins in, sticking out one leg to push his dog back towards the floor. “Calm down, it’s okay.”

 

Titus stands on the ornate dining room rug, looking from Bruce to Damian and back again, whimpering breathily and wriggling his whole body with the force of his tail wagging.

 

“Who’s being loud?”

 

Bruce glances up from the dog and boy in front of him in time to see his second youngest stumble into the kitchen, looking less than half awake. His hair, much longer than Damian’s, is a mop of wavy, black half-curls that reach out in all directions like creeping vines while he yawns and rubs at one eye with the sleeve of his shirt.

 

“Good morning, Timothy.” Alfred pushes a plate of food into the teenager’s hands and for a moment he looks down at it like the older man just handed him an impossible brain teaser, before blinking hard and walking towards the dining room table.

 

Tim plunks himself down into the chair to Bruce’s right, then takes another moment to consider his plate before looking up and reaching for the coffee carafe sitting on a potholder in the center of the table.

 

Damian finally sets the napkins on the table and Bruce takes one, wiping the juice from his face, neck, and shirt.

 

He’s dabbing at a droplet on his shirt when he hears a soft thump on the table, and glances up.

 

The coffee carafe is just out of Tim’s reach. He sits staring at it, a slight frown on his face and his brow furrowed, arm lying outstretched on the table.

 

“Tt.” Damian huffs with a shake of his head. He’s scratching Titus’ head with one hand while he eats with the other.

 

Bruce sets his napkin aside, then reaches forward and moves the carafe closer to his son so he can reach it. “Good morning, Tim.”

 

Coffee sloshes into Tim’s mug, steam rising into the air. For someone barely awake enough to walk, Tim seems to be having no trouble mustering the strength to pour his coffee.

 

“Why are we up so early?” The teenager grumbles after he’s set the carafe aside and is pouring cream into the mug.

 

Damian glances up from his breakfast. “No one asked you to get up this early.”

 

“No one asked you to be born.”

 

“Boys.” Bruce intervenes with a firm voice. The single word is all they need to get the hint. They still exchange frustrated glares, but Bruce chooses not to address them.

 

“I actually slept in this morning.” He goes on instead, adapting a cheerful, conversational tone in hopes that they might follow suit.

 

“I got up so I can be ready to greet the new students alongside Father.” Damian adds.

 

Bruce glances up in surprise.

 

Tim raises an eyebrow. “Because being greeted by a miniature Bruce Wayne alongside Regular Sized Bruce Wayne will make them feel welcome?”

 

Damian scowls. “It’s only proper, since I am going to be running this place one day. I should be familiar with everyone who studies here.”

 

A snort from Tim. “Oh okay, you are going to be in charge of this place?”

 

“I am the only real son-”

 

“Damian!” Bruce snaps, putting his juice glass down on the table hard enough to startle both boys.

 

It is true that of his children, Damian is the only one not adopted. But it hardly makes a difference to anyone except for the boy himself. The proud, sometimes arrogant little boy.

 

“Apologize to your brother.”

 

“You mean my adopted brother?” Damian grumbles so softly it’s barely audible.

 

“Damian.”

 

The young teenager glares at the table near Tim. “I’m sorry.”

 

It won’t win any awards for sincerity, but Bruce knows it’s likely to be the best he’ll pull from the boy this morning. He glances at Tim expectantly.

 

The teenager rolls his eyes pointedly, shoving a forkful of pancakes into his mouth.

 

“Apology accepted.” He mumbles around the food.

 

“Good. Now let’s have a nice, civil family breakfast, please.”

 

“Civil family breakfasts? Those are the best kind.”

 

The arrival of Bruce’s eldest son immediately diffuses the tension rising in the room. Something about Dick’s cheerful presence has always had that effect, even when he was just a little boy.

 

Dick walks into the room freshly showered and dressed, smiling brightly and finger-combing his curly black hair out of his eyes. He snatches a cinnamon bun from a plate on the island and smiles at Alfred’s raised eyebrow before he turns lightly on his feet to arrive at the table, sitting down beside Damian.

 

“What are we talking about?”

 

The way the eldest boy’s gaze is switching slowly between Damian and Tim tells Bruce that Dick is putting things together. He’s always been observant, and could definitely be the world’s greatest detective if given half a chance. Bruce has no doubt he knew the moment he walked into the room, if not before, that the two youngest Wayne’s were having yet another spat.

 

“Just discussing who’s coming with me to welcome the new students as they arrive.” Bruce says simply. “Unfortunately I think Damian is going to be too busy with chores-” he ignores his son’s pointed sigh, “and Tim certainly has homework to be doing.”

 

Tim drops his fork onto his plate with a loud clatter. “I didn’t even do anything! ...And it’s summer!”

 

Dick shakes his head with a slight smile, then takes a big bite of his cinnamon roll while Damian glares at him, probably disappointed his oldest brother didn’t leap to his defense.

 

The family returns to their meals until Jason, yet another of his sons, enters the kitchen. To Bruce’s surprise he’s not only awake and dressed, he’s wearing a light t-shirt and shorts, plucking ear buds out of his ears, clearly having just returned from a brisk morning jog.

 

“Jason, you’re up already?”

 

He doesn’t respond at first and Bruce is about to repeat the question when he finally speaks without more than a brief glance up at him from his phone.

 

“You didn’t think I stopped being an early riser just because I’m living in Hamilton County now, did you?”

 

Bruce shrugs. “No, I just thought you might like to take a break. It is your summer break, after all.”

 

He’s struck with a pang of regret when he realizes that if he had gotten out of bed at his regular time, he might have been able to go for a run with Jason, something they hadn’t done together since before Jason’s accident a couple of years before.

 

“Break from college doesn’t mean a break from everything.” Jason shrugs, snagging a waffle.

 

Jason has yet to make eye contact with anyone in the room, even Alfred.

 

Bruce glances at Dick, who meets his gaze evenly and nods so subtly it’s almost imperceptible. He’s noticed it too, the way Jason isn’t talking much and is moving like his body is a coiled spring.

 

It’s been five years since the accident that nearly killed his second oldest son. Five years isn’t all that long, trauma-wise. It makes sense he would still be having nightmares. As hard as it was to think about, he probably always would.

 

Clearly, today, he was having trouble getting his mind off of them.

 

“Jason?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

Bruce pushes a piece of his omelette around on his plate. “I need someone to come greet the new students with me. Are you free?”

 

Jason opens a cabinet door and pulls out a paper plate, which he quickly begins filling with the various breakfast foods Alfred has lined up on the island while the man watches in silent disapproval.

 

“I appreciate the charitable gesture, B,” He says, licking icing off one finger after grabbing the largest cinnamon bun on the plate, “but I’m fine. You should take Golden Boy with you. Dazzle them with the smoke and mirrors.”

 

Dick is leaning forward with his crossed arms resting on the table. When Jason uses the sarcastic nickname, he glances down to stare at the table and Bruce sighs.

 

“Jason, it’s not charity. I-”

 

“Bruce, take Grayson. You know he’s the one who’s going to make you feel like you aren’t making a huge mistake and ruining everything your parents worked for.”

 

Bruce doesn’t feel himself lose his grip on his fork but he hears it hit his plate and it startles him. Before he can say anything in response Jason is gone, heavy footsteps hurrying up the stairs, and the dining room is silent.

 

He’s grateful they aren’t in the living room, where the huge painting of his parents hangs above the fireplace. But even with the painting out of sight, he’s stared at it enough since their deaths when he was a child younger than Damian to be able to remember every detail.

 

He stares down at his plate, no longer very hungry. All he can see is the painting. His parents smiling down at the room. Smiling at him. Trusting him with their fortune, their legacy. Everything he doesn’t deserve.

 

“Bruce-” Dick begins, breaking the long silence as gently as he can.

 

Before he can continue, Bruce begins speaking instead as if Dick had never said anything.

 

“Right. We only have about a half hour until things kick off. Dick, you and I should go get ready.”

 

His sons don’t protest the end of breakfast, although the youngest do protest being told to stay inside and help Alfred clean up.

 

On his way towards his room to get dressed, Bruce passes the living room and against his better judgement glances into the room, looks at the fireplace, then glances at the painting above the mantle.

 

His parents look the same as always. But their gaze is suddenly unbearable.

 

Bruce starts up the stairs, and with every step he feels heavier and heavier.

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone curious about that bit about Jason living in Hamilton County, I'm borrowing the concept that audreycritter used in her fic 'Out Here Hope Remains' where Jason lives with the Kents and goes to college out there. Now that you're done with this, you should go read that and all of AC's other fics because they are all amazing.
> 
> Thanks for reading! :D


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